


First Aid

by brecchia



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Spectacular Spider-Man (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, hinted Peter/Mary Jane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 02:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20686295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brecchia/pseuds/brecchia
Summary: “I just thought,” he says, sliding the big pan into the murky water, “I don’t know, it seems like a good idea. It’d look good on my resume, right?”“It could,” Aunt May says, somewhere between dry and doubtful. He supposes it’s not her fault a career in physics or whatever doesn’t exactly scream ‘EMT training required’ - though after the kinds of lab accidents he’s seen, it probably should.*Peter can't tell Aunt May the whole truth. That doesn't mean she isn't listening.





	First Aid

“I want to learn first aid.”

Peter’s been thinking about it for weeks – months really, on and off, the idea usually jumping into his head right when he can’t do anything about it. Like when he’s under the sputtering light of a Walgreens bathroom taping the skin on his chest back together, or in class trying to stare at the whiteboard through a cloud of buzzing black spots, or crouched on top of a wrecked car and reaching in for the groaning driver as someone on the street shouts _what are you doing, you can’t just _move_ them!_

So of course he blurts it out in the middle of dishes. Also in the middle of a sentence, he realises a few seconds too late, as Aunt May’s mouth slowly closes over the last words of whatever he and his lack of impulse control have just steamrolled straight through. Peter braces for a chiding, but her eyebrows just draw together as she twists her tea towel into the glass she’s holding.

“Honey, if this is your way of saying you’ve grabbed a knife by the wrong end again-”

“No,” he says hastily, pulling both hands free of the water, unharmed by anything but suds and saturation. “No – wow, really? That was one time.”

“One time, three stitches, the last ungreyed hairs on my head…” She smiles, but the frown lingers around her eyes, and when she sets the glass down on the counter she doesn’t reach for the next one, instead turning towards him and draping the towel over one arm like the daisy-patterned napkin of a maitre’d. “Well. I was expecting you to come out with _something_, but I can’t say that was it.”

He’s a little offended. It’s probably not the right emotional response. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been a million miles away all evening, Peter,” she says, with the too-shrewd look that always makes him want to start patting down his body in search of rogue spandex. “I was starting to think I could announce my courtship of Anna Watson and you’d just nod along.”

He can’t exactly admit that two weeks of being grounded haven’t left him a lot of daylight hours for web-slinging. Cat-naps might be a lot easier to sneak during the holidays, but too many nights in a row of prowling during the graveyard shift leaves him spacey at the best of times - and lately? It has not been the best of times.

Of course, he can’t admit that either.

Peter purses his lips, plunging his hands back into the sink. “Anna Watson? The Anna Watson? Isn’t she a little old for you, young lady?”

The look she gives him is decidedly unimpressed now, and a hint of the chiding tone he was expecting earlier creeps in. “Peter-”

“Would we have to move into her house, or is she coming over here? I mean, I guess it’s not like it’s much of a trip either way but you’ve seen the paisley curtains, right? Actual paisley.”

“Peter.”

“And does this make MJ my step-cousin? I so don’t need a step-cousin.” Actually, that thought really is unsettling, and he scrubs vigorously at a curry-stained spoon to erase it. “We’d have to share a bathroom, and I mean, yow, have you seen her hair? Goodbye, hot water-”

The tea towel smacks solidly into his shoulder and he ducks away, lifting elbows and spoon in futile self-defence as Aunt May makes an exasperated noise. “Heaven forbid I worry about my only nephew!”

“You mean favourite nephew?” he says, peeking through the barrier of his arms, a dampness seeping into his socks.

“_Only_ nephew,” she repeats emphatically. “Oh – Peter, don’t just stand there, you’re dripping all over the place-”

He’s not deluded enough to think he’s thrown the conversation off course entirely, but the time it takes for them to shuffle back into position at the sink is time enough for him to make a grab at its reins.

“I just thought,” he says, sliding the big pan into the murky water, “I don’t know, it seems like a good idea. It’d look good on my resume, right?”

“It could,” Aunt May says, somewhere between dry and doubtful. He supposes it’s not her fault a career in physics or whatever doesn’t exactly scream ‘EMT training required’ - though after the kinds of lab accidents he’s seen, it probably should.

“So it’s forward thinking.” Water sloshes noisily in a circle. “I’m all about forward thinking. Plus I don’t remember if you’re supposed to do compressions to Twinkle Twinkle or Humpty Dumpty and it keeps me up at night.”

“Baa Baa Black Sheep,” she says. That’s all she says, and when he glances over she’s frowning again, her thumb turning a slow rhythm over the clean spoon. Peter mentally plays his own words back and winces. Way to grab the reins and then immediately yank the horses into a crocodile-infested river.

“Not...literally.” It’s not one of the lies he’s most practiced at telling, and it comes out clunky. Way too clunky for too shrewd eyes. “Not _literally_ up at night, Aunt May. Like I said, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about. Thought about. Sometimes.”

Like when Harry’s sagged in his arms, pupils blown wide and manic, muscles twitching with unnatural strength under his fingers. Like when Gwen’s breathing harsh and pained in the seat next to him, squinting like she’s fighting to see in the singular as she determinedly guides a supervillain’s sub to the surface.

Like when he’s kneeling on familiar faded carpet, hands pressing down on a chest that isn’t moving, all the spider-themed powers in the world suddenly as useless as a slice of wet bread in a house fire.

The pan makes a grating sound that goes right through to his teeth, and he hurriedly lifts the rough sponge away, checking to make sure he hasn’t gone and scrubbed off a layer of non-stick. Thankfully there aren’t any major scrapes glaring up at him, but he is definitely out of grime to pretend is the most absorbing thing in the room, and he resigns himself to handing it over, switching his stare to the sink. He can feel a Talk brewing like a tightening in his chest, a constricting squeeze of half-truths and vague explanations that just gets more tangled with every one they have, and oh, hey, he might just be remembering why he thinks about this a bunch but never brings it up.

“Okay,” Aunt May says simply, and his gaze snaps up from the cloud of soapy bubbles to her face. The look that greets him isn’t happy, but it’s not the pinched-lips pinched-eyes look or that one shaky sort of expression he hates more than any of the other bad news faces.

“Okay?” he echoes.

“Let’s do it. We'll find a- a course of some kind. The Red Cross, or maybe the community centre will have something.” She wrestles the pan down onto the counter then turns, hands going loosely to her hips, tea towel bunched in her grasp. “You and me. Lord knows it’s been long enough since I learned any of it myself - unless,” a flash of something like uncertainty, “unless this was something you wanted to do by yourself, which is fine, sweetheart. I just thought I’d offer.”

There’s a second where he thinks of Aunt May lying down, eyes closed, playing the dying victim as he chants nursery rhymes in an attempt to revive her, and his stomach tries to slither into his intestines. It’s too close to the images his subconscious keeps chewing on already.

But two quick blinks later actual Aunt May is still standing there, watching him with worry bright in her eyes but her hands determinedly on her hips. He still hasn’t gotten used to having to look down to her.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay?”

“Me and you,” Peter confirms, and this time her smile comes slower, wider, unburdened by a frown. “...and the five dozen creepy dummies that will haunt my dreams forever.”

“Oh, they grow on you,” she says.

He empties the sink and scrubs off the residue, and she dries the pan. The Talk still hovers somewhere in the background, waiting its turn, but the weight in his chest is less than its been in weeks, his breathing that much easier. It feels - good to be taking this plunge. To be doing something, not just waiting for the next disaster to clothesline him out of nowhere and leave him scrambling and stupid and clutching at should-haves when it’s too late to make a difference.

He can’t do everything, but he can do this.

Peter flicks a glance sideways to where Aunt May is sliding the pan back into its shelf, a touch of a grin on his face that barely does justice to the warm bloom in his chest. “‘Courtship’,” he snorts, and wrinkles his nose dramatically at the arched eyebrow she sends back. “You’re so old.”

“Distinguished and dignified,” she says, straightening, and he catches the wicked glint in her eye right before she adds, “And if we’re truly on that topic, Peter dear, would you like to tell me more about Mary Jane’s hair?”

Old, shrewd, and _completely evil_. He throws the sponge into the sink with a wet splat, feels the heat rush up his neck, red as a tin of tomatoes on a fire truck. Red as MJ’s hair. “It’s just - _long!_”


End file.
